


Dream a Little Dream

by bastet_in_april, Tarek_giverofcookies



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Accidental kidnapping, Adventure, Ancient History, Aristophanes’ The Frogs, Crowley Was Not Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Gen, Illness, M/M, Medicine, Nightmares, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Shapeshifting, Shenanigans, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Snakes, assorted travelers, historical setting (1st century Greece), medical care in the ancient world, mentioned child death, mentions of ageism and ableism, mentions of injury, planning a heist of a caduceus, silliness, the Temple of Asclepius in Epidaurus, traveling through dreamscapes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:01:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25641025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastet_in_april/pseuds/bastet_in_april, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarek_giverofcookies/pseuds/Tarek_giverofcookies
Summary: Crowley is sent on assignment to the Temple of Asclepius in Epidaurus, in order to give nightmares and tempting dreams to the sick pilgrims who travel there to receive curative dreams from the god. He runs into Aziraphale, who is in town as an earth locality liaison for the visiting Archangel, Raphael, who has come to heal the sick.To escape the Archangel’s notice, Crowley spends some time being a snake, inadvertently falling asleep in the very room in the temple that Raphael is utilizing, curling up next to his traveling staff. This leads to Crowley being inadvertently abducted by the Archangel Raphael, as part of his caduceus, and being brought to help heal the visitors to the temple.Aziraphale has to get the staff away from the Archangel and rescue Crowley, without revealing the arrangement, or tipping off their respective superiors.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19
Collections: Good Omens Mini Bang





	1. Epidaurus

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Do It With Style Mini Bang! The art is by the fantastic Tarek, to whom I am deeply grateful. Check out more of Tarek's work [here!](https://tarekgiverofcookies.tumblr.com/)

Throughout history, Crowley had made something of a hobby of rescuing Aziraphale from peril. It wasn’t the sort of thing that either found comfortable to express aloud, but they both felt a secret thrill when Crowley stormed into the gothically adorned cellar, looking particularly demonic, to rescue Aziraphale, bound in a chair, and wearing a crown of flowers and a white robe, from the terrified and bewildered cult that had planned to sacrifice him. Or when Crowley had cleverly orchestrated a mutiny with just a few offhand remarks, just as the ship Aziraphale was traveling aboard had been overtaken by the pirate crew Crowley had been assigned to encourage to sin. The former pirate Captain, who had been holding Aziraphale at pistol point and wondering how much he might be able to ransom him for, abruptly found himself stripped of his title and cast adrift in a lifeboat, while the newly appointed Captain Crowley retired with Aziraphale to his cabin to have a celebratory drink. 

Occasionally, though, Crowley found himself in need of a rescue.

***

Crowley quite liked Epidaurus. After the assignment in Rome, Crowley had been in a fierce sulk, lifted only by the month his time in the city had overlapped with Aziraphale’s and the way the angel continued to surprise him with his ready acceptance, and even delight in, Crowley’s presence, the memory of Aziraphale’s excited smile and the noises he had made as he languorously swallowed the oysters that Petronius had presented to them. Epidaurus, at least, had no politicians for Crowley to twist, only to instead find himself horrified at the extent to which they had already twisted themselves, with no infernal influence needed. Instead, the small Peloponnesian city was primarily occupied by the upkeep of its massive temple to Asclepius, the god of healing. It bustled with tourists, traveling physicians, and pilgrims seeking divine intervention from the god. The heyday of the temple had passed, but the polis continued to enjoy the prosperity that came from its presence; ill health was an eternal concern for humanity, so visitation still continued, even if the temple’s stonework needed a new coat of paint desperately. There was even a beautiful amphitheater, hundreds of years old, but still hosting performances of raucous comedies and sacred dramas. It was in the stone seats of the amphitheater, at a slightly lackluster performance of Aristophanes’ _The Frogs,_ that Crowley spotted a familiar head of cloud-pale hair. Grinning, he shuffled past other theater patrons, until he could steal the space next to Aziraphale for himself. Aziraphale startled, and then made room for him on the stone bench. “Crowley! I didn’t expect that I’d run into you again for some time! What are you doing in Greece?”

Crowley shrugged casually, making himself comfortable (or, at least, as comfortable as he could, given that his seat was made out of stone). “Oh, you know. Just a small job. Got orders to nip over and give a few of the pilgrims to the Temple some bad dreams.” Crowley’s delight with humanity bubbled up again, and he enthused, “Can you believe it? Whole big Temple, hundreds of guest rooms, and people travel from all around just to sleep there. To sleep!”

Aziraphale’s brow creased. “The travelers who are staying at the Temple to incubate dreams from Asclepius?”

“Yeah. I’m supposed to sow doubt and shake their faith with a few nightmares, inspire a few bad decisions with false dream revelations, that sort of thing.”

Aziraphale’s fingers twisted themselves into worried knots, and he hesitated, before finally asking, “You aren’t going to harm them, are you? Only, they’re already sick and suffering, the poor things, and so many of them have traveled so far in hopes of a cure…”

Crowley was affronted. “No! What do you take me for, angel?” His jaw worked silently for a moment, as he watched the actors playing Xanthias and Dionysos exchange clothing, in order to trick the murderous Aeacus into mistaking who they were. “The job is just spreading a few night terrors. It might shake them up a bit, but it isn’t going to hurt any of the humans.” He sighed. “Honestly, it seems like a piece of cake after that business with Caligula.”

“I like cake,” Aziraphale reflected. “They make delightful honey cakes at the inn near the healing springs.”

“Yeah?” Crowley softened.

“Oh, yes! You must try them, Crowley. They’re simply not to be missed.” Aziraphale hesitated, and then asked hopefully. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in joining me for dinner there, to sample them?”

Crowley could feel the corners of his mouth quirking up despite himself, and the corners of his eyes creasing. “Angel, I can think of nothing I’d like better,” he admitted.

“Good,” Aziraphale announced, pleased that that was settled. He paused, and then turned to face Crowley more fully, abandoning any pretense of watching the action on the stage. “Because I need to warn you, Crowley. As pleased as I am to be able to share another meal with you so soon, it’s a bit of bad luck that you were sent to Epidaurus now.” His blue-green eyes were steady and serious as they met Crowley’s own, hidden behind his glasses. “There’s an Archangel in town.”

***

 _At least it isn’t Gabriel_ , Crowley told himself, as he slithered along the flagstones of the floor, until they gave way to packed dirt covered in straw mats for extra warmth (the poor travelers and pilgrims weren’t housed as comfortably as the god that they came to beg healing from). _Or Michael. Just have to lay low, and Raphael will never even notice I’m here._ Being a snake made laying low considerably easier, allowing Crowley to stay out of the eyeline of any stab-happy Archangels (not that Raphael was particularly known for that). 

The sleeper laid out on the pallet in the room, herb-laced wine abandoned at her bedside only half-drunk, was an elderly woman, her knuckles and joints inflamed with rheumatism. Crowley cast his fiery yellow eyes towards her, considering. His tongue flickered out, tasting the bitterness and pain in the air. Her husband had died, and she had been given to the care of her son’s household—a son who regarded her as a burden, and who openly counted the days until she was gathered into Persephone’s arms. “Living well and long is the best revenge,” Crowley hissed into her sleeping ear. He bolstered her health with a quick diabolical miracle, soothing away pain in joints, strengthening her heart and bones, and banishing the faint shadow in her lungs. “Dream of the look on his face when you come home, strong and well. Dream of all the ways you will make the ungrateful boy pay for every time he has dismissed and humiliated you.” In her sleep, the woman smiled.

Satisfied at a job well done, and determined to keep a very low profile, Crowley decided he could afford to clock off early. It would be a shame to waste all those empty guest rooms, with their comfortable pallets neatly appointed in fresh linen blankets. Dagon and Beelzebub had little patience for sloth in their underlings--it was all well and good to tempt the humans with it, but it would not be tolerated among the ranks of Hell--but what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. Crowley slithered easily under a closed door, and into an unoccupied guest room beyond. His snake shape was very useful for getting him into places he wasn’t supposed to be. His tongue flickered out, as he studied the room.

 _Empty,_ Crowley realized, _not unoccupied._ The pallet bed and the blankets neatly folded on it were undisturbed; no one had slept there. A long wooden staff, of the kind often used by those traveling through the hilly countryside and dense forest of the Peloponnese region rested beside the pillow. Folded up beside it was a waterproof cloak, and a broad-brimmed petasos hat, of the type worn by travelers or goatherds, who sought refuge from the glare of the sun. There was a small bag sitting on top of the cloak, and Crowley wondered how any traveling pilgrim seeking a healing dream could get as far as Epidaurus without learning that it was unwise to leave one’s belongings in an unsecured room. Even if that room was part of a Temple. 

Crowley considered moving on to find another, truly unoccupied, room. That fluffy, unslept-on pillow looked so inviting, though. He was staying so that he could give the room’s occupant a scare, Crowley reassured himself, as he coiled onto the soft pillow, his tail twining around the worn wood of the staff beside it, not because he was too lazy to find an empty room. Crowley fell asleep, imagining the horrified shriek of whatever luckless human had claimed this bed, when they returned to their room and found a snake curled up on their pillow.

***

Raphael was really enjoying this assignment. Humans were noisy, confusing, and had a terrible habit of changing dramatically between the archangel’s visits--Really, was it too much to ask for a little consistency from millenia to millenia?--but, overall, Raphael found them to be interesting and friendly creatures, if odd. What was best about these particular humans, though, was the lack of paperwork. Raphael was sure it existed elsewhere--they remembered Ur’s obsessive tax records--but Epidaurus had only receipts, grateful prayers of dedication, and records of prescriptions given in dreams. Raphael could simply go about giving them healing dreams, and the humans did their paperwork for them. It was a pleasant break from Michael insisting that everything be noted in holy triplicate. They looked around themselves, taking in the sight of the marketplace, bustling with people selling woven cloth, bread and figs, and even lambs, and wondered where Azirphale had disappeared to, before shrugging affably and dismissing the thought. The sun was beginning to sink towards the horizon, illuminating the crowd streaming away from the amphitheater in the distance.

Raphael had realized that there was another angel in the city, and had dropped by to say a cheerful “hello!” as the angel was walking through the sprawling temple complex with an armful of scrolls. Aziraphale had been strangely flustered by Raphael’s sudden appearance, rushing to explain that the scrolls were, “medical texts, and prayers for healing; I read them to--to see that my work encouraging compassion and faith has taken hold properly, of course.” Aziraphale had then swiftly changed the subject to Raphael’s own assignment, enquiring whether he could be of any service to them, in the manner of a local guide. Aziraphale had wrung his hands so vociferously that his knuckles had turned white with tension. Raphael found themself wondering whether they should have begun the conversation with, “be not afraid!” as they might with humans.

It was Aziraphale who had gotten Raphael settled into a room in the temple, in which they would have easy access to the patients seeking healing dreams, and who had helped Raphael assume the clothing and appearance of a local traveler (apparently, the kaunakes skirt of woven wool was not only several millennia out of date, but also entirely unsuitable for this geographic region). The marketplace had been very helpful in acquiring new clothing, some of which they had swiftly miracled away to their room. After that, they had let Aziraphale go about his business, to both angels’ relief. Raphael liked Aziraphale, in an abstractly benevolent sort of way, but found him as odd as the humans. They supposed it came with spending so much time on Earth. In small doses, it was a glorious vacation from Heaven’s bureaucracy, but all the time? If Aziraphale was anything to go by, it just made you a nervous wreck. It was a shame, really. 

Well, Raphael, at least, intended to have fun while they were down here.

Part of that fun was dressing up, to fit the local perception of how a messenger of divine power would appear. Raphael had fashioned their power into the shape of a staff, and they intended to decorate it with angelic wings, and with the serpents that were the sacred symbols of healing here. They could wear their travelers’ garb, and appear to be one of the manifestations of God in this land. It would set the dreamers at ease to see Godly power in the form they expected it, and make performing miracles that much easier for Raphael. It was a lark, to not have to be a stern and noble Archangel. They could be a mischievous trickster, instead.

Night was setting, and Raphael hurried back to the temple, excited to get to work.

***

Crowley was jolted rudely out of sleep when his bed moved abruptly. He felt himself moving through the air, and instinctively tightened his coils around his perch, recognizing the grain of wood under his scales. Senses suddenly unclouded with sleep his eyes registered an affably cheerful face, a pair of dark brown eyes alight with curiosity, staring at him from alarmingly close proximity. Crowley spluttered out an offended hiss of shock--it was not a shriek, he swore--and reared backwards, mouth open to bite. The odor of celestial power, tingly with ozone, and resinous as treacle, flooded in.

 _Sata--Go--Fuck!_ It was the Archangel. 

Raphael crinkled their nose, staring into Crowley’s too-wide yellow eyes.

“How did you get into my room?” they wondered aloud.

Because of course it was the Archangel’s pillow Crowley had gone to sleep on, hoping to terrify some hapless pilgrim. Why did every wicked scheme Crowley devised turn around to bite him? Now he was coiled around the traveling staff, several feet in the air, staring down an Archangel who could smite him with less effort than it took to make a sandwich (this would have taken more effort for Raphael than Crowley assumed, because they hadn’t the faintest notion what a sandwich was).

“Well, I have heard the humans saying that the snakes are given leave to wander the temple, since they are sacred to Asklepios.” Raphael paused, considering.

“What a lucky coincidence! You’re just what I need, my snakey friend.” Raphael’s eyes crinkled at the corners, and their grin was wide and vivid. Crowley was transfixed with terror as Raphael patted his head happily. Did the Archangel really not realize he was a demon? How could Raphael not sense him at such close range? Or were they just playing some sort of twisted game of tormenting him, before smiting Crowley into a pile of brimstone-scented ash?

“I’m here to bring dreams of healing to the travelers who have come here to faithfully pray for relief, you know,” Raphael confided to the snake curled around their staff, who looked as if he were trying to mentally will himself invisible. What a delightfully silly creature! “And I thought I’d best do it in a shape that’s easy for their dreaming minds to process--I’ll be dressed up as one of their gods!” Raphael plucked the petasos hat from the pile of clothing next to the bed, setting it on their black curls, and then draped the cloak around their shoulders. They snapped their fingers gleefully, and a rush of power surged next to Crowley’s head. Crowley tried to wriggle away from the top of the staff, but that only put him closer to where Raphael’s hand rested on the wood. He watched as a pair of glimmering silver wings appeared at the top of the staff, and flexed themselves, fanning out their feathers testingly. Crowley grimaced, half relieved that the miracle hadn’t been an attack, and half repulsed at the stick suddenly growing living, functional limbs. Apparently, not content with that, Raphael made a second pair of silver wings for their sandals. “You can be my caduceus! It’ll be fun!” The wood of the staff under Crowley’s carnelian-colored belly writhed, coiling around the staff and Crowley’s lower half, in the shape of another snake. The wooden serpent truncated itself into a head staring straight at Crowley’s. It looked as if it were laughing at him, trapped by it’s oakwood coils. Raphael was humming happily to themself, as they adjusted the position of their hat.

 _Definitely tormenting me,_ Crowley decided. 

“Right! Let’s go heal some people!” Raphael announced, clicking their heels together. 

You may perhaps recall that for angels and demons, size, shape, and composition, are simply options. What Raphael (towing Crowley scream-hissing along with them) did next, was not so much slipping through the big gaps between electrons, as skipping sideways into the slip-and-slide between awake and deep sleep, replete with delta wave oblivion, into REM sleep, and the bizarre and nightmarish wonderland of human dreams. The ethereal and occult beings vanished with a sound like the popping one’s ears make in an airplane.


	2. Berenice

Aziraphale should have been utilizing the night to get some reading done. He had been looking forward to reading the medical papyri and accounts of dreams that Akakios, one of the priest’s of Asklepios had let him borrow (alright, Aziraphale hadn’t asked permission before making off with the stack of books he’d spotted on the priest’s desk, but he’d left a _very_ apologetic note!). He had no need for sleep, and the dark was easily dealt with through the use of a quick miracle. But Aziraphale found that he couldn’t focus on the words. He felt uneasy, and tense. The hair on the back of his arms stood up, as if in expectation of a storm. The more Aziraphale tried to dismiss the feeling, the greater his uneasiness became.

It took him some time to understand what he was feeling. For Crowley, nearly 4,100 years of pulling Aziraphale out of trouble had honed this sixth sense knife sharp, acute. Aziraphale had, thus far, rescued Crowley by luck and opportunity, rather than by hunting for it. But slowly the growing tension, the worry gnawing at Aziraphale's stomach, began to take shape in his mind’s eye, gaining frightened lamplight-yellow eyes and sharp features.

Aziraphale dithered. Ought he to check on Crowley, who was in danger of being detected by Raphael? Or would that only risk drawing Raphael’s attention? Crowley was clever enough to conceal himself--he was probably stirring up nightmares in the sleeping mind of some luckless human, right this very moment!

Aziraphale bit his lip. Raphael was visiting humans with dreams, as well. What if the Archangel and the demon ran into each other in some human’s REM state, and made a battlefield of the sleeping human brain? 

Aziraphale’s heart clenched, and he felt wretchedly guilty for the way he instinctively flinched at the idea of Crowley being hurt or discorporated, rather than sparing worry for Raphael. But the thought of that face that had grown so comfortably familiar and dear twisting in pain or fear… Regardless of what he was _supposed_ to feel, Aziraphale knew the state of his heart, even if it couldn’t be acknowledged.

Duty, though, provided a welcome excuse. Aziraphale would check in on the old serpent--purely to keep abreast of what wiles he was scheming, of course. No other reason at all.

Aziraphale set down the scroll gently, casting it an apologetic glance. He would devote his full attention to it once he was certain that Crowley hadn’t gotten himself into any trouble he couldn’t get back out of again. Aziraphale banished the orb of light he had been reading by, and turned his feet towards the part of the temple where patients stayed to incubate dream prescriptions.

***

Berenice was dreaming. She was aware that she was dreaming, which would help her remember the dream. That was good, she thought, because this dream was important; this was a dream that was given to her by God. She was dreaming of being on a snow capped mountain. She had never seen snow before, but it was just as her uncle had described it in stories: icy cold, prickling against her skin like needle-sharp diamonds, but as soft as feathers. It was so like needles and diamonds, in fact, that that was what each flake was: swan’s down and gemstones, falling down on her from the infinite black sky. 

Abruptly, she wasn’t alone. A being with curly dark hair, and bright brown eyes, was standing next to her, and the hard gems and sneeze-inducing feathers were blocked by an unfurled wing.

Excepting the massive wings, like those on the back of the goddess Nike, the god looked just like she had seen in pictures, wearing a traveler’s clothing, waterproof and sunproof, carrying a caduceus wand, and with sandals that had glittering, delicate wings. For swiftness, she remembered, and to travel to and from the underworld. Berenice felt a sudden dread seize her. What if Hermes hadn’t been sent to bring healing remedies from Asklepios, but to bring her into the afterlife? Had she died in her sleep? Berenice remembered being very ill; her rattling, wet cough had made it hard to rest, every breath like a knife between her ribs, even with the potion given to her by the temple priest. But now, nothing hurt.

Her brother had said that it didn’t hurt anymore, right before the fever took him.

But Hermes was smiling at her, and there was cheerful mirth there, rather than pity. “Berenice,” said the god, “I have come to bring you healing. Will you let me chase the illness from your dreams? I’ll need your help.”

Berenice shivered, and watched as the side of the mountain opened up into a yawning dark mouth full of gleaming stone teeth. She wanted very much to be well, but facing the illness here, in the one place she could escape and find peace from it, frightened her.

One of the snakes on the caduceus writhed, hissing. Berenice thought it looked as unhappy about its situation as she did.

She bit her lip, her thoughts turning again to her brother, before nodding to Hermes. Doing something was better than doing nothing, surely? That was why her parents had brought her here, why she had traveled in her family’s cart, every stone and depression in the path jolting her aching body. “Yes, alright. What do I have to do?”

“You’ll have to lead the way,” Hermes told her. “Take my caduceus.”

The staff’s wood was smooth in her grip. The wooden snake stared blankly at her. The black and red snake looked pleadingly at her, before shooting a furtive look at Hermes, as if afraid of drawing their attention. 

Berenice felt her curiosity roused, like a banked ember coaxed gently into flame by the mystery of the serpent. Perhaps it was a sympathetic impulse, to want to know what frightened the serpent. She knew what she was afraid of, and why. What did the snake fear? Hermes? That seemed strange, since it was part of the god’s magic wand, and Hermes wasn’t so intimidating--for a god. But those wide yellow snake eyes stared pleadingly at her, as if demanding rescue. “Why don’t I… go ahead, a bit?” she suggested. “Scout a path, make sure I’m leading us the right way.”

Hermes raised an eyebrow wryly, disbelief clear in every line of their face. “You do what seems best,” they said, with a sort of patronizing, indulgent fondness. “It’s your dream, and your choice.”

*** 

If Aziraphale hadn’t already known Crowley had been working his wiles on the sleepers in the temple, he never would have detected the traces of demonic energy here. The wily old serpent had a remarkable skill at remaining unnoticed, when he wished, and no one could sneak in and out of places they weren’t allowed quite like Crowley (e.g., the Garden, most famously). Invisible to human sight as he traveled from room to room, Aziraphale could sense the lingering traces of Crowley’s handiwork in the sleepers’ minds, like dark cobwebs. Crowley’s work was easy to recognize: the demon had a creative spark that most of his kind lacked, but he wasn’t needlessly cruel, so much as, well… a bit wicked, particularly given a chance to exercise his sense of humor. He enjoyed seeing what humans did, when given choice and opportunity, and a demonic nudge (except when he didn’t, and got blackout drunk trying to forget the cruelties human beings were capable of inflicting upon one another). He was a bit lazy, and didn’t see much point in doing work, simply for work’s sake. Why expend all that effort and energy, when the humans would get up to most of the trouble on their own?

Crowley’s gentle nudges, hints, and suggestions--not coercion, but an opening of the mind to new possibilities, options that had seemed off limits--were like a trail of footprints Aziraphale was following, through the temple’s dormitory. Until, abruptly, they came to an end at a familiar room, and Aziraphale recognized with horror the very sleeping quarters that he had settled Raphael into, so that the Archangel would have better access to the sleepers while conducting healing miracles.

_No, no, no, no--_

Aziraphale found himself frantically overturning the few items in the room, as if Crowley might be hiding underneath the spare clothes Aziraphale had found for Raphael, over inside the discarded knapsack, or even under the Archangel’s pillow. Crowley failed to appear, and Aziraphale sank to his knees, the pillow still clutched in his trembling hands. Crowley had been there, he could feel the faint trace of him lingering--a sensation of self-satisfied sleep and expectation of mischief, and then a faint trace of a darker emotion--harder for Aziraphale to sense of decipher. Fear? It was hardly noticeable under the crackling ozone of angelic power.

Aziraphale realized he was trembling, and set his jaw firmly. _None of that,_ he told himself. _Crowley is fine. He’s--not here. But he must be fine._ Raphael wasn’t there either. Had they gone back to Heaven? Aziraphale frowned. No, that didn’t seem likely. Even if they had… had had to smite a demon, Raphael wouldn’t have given up their earthly task because of a disruption. They’d have gone on to perform the miracles they’d been sent to Earth for. _So, they’re in the dreams._

Perhaps Crowley was with them, fleeing ahead of them in dreams, trying to stay out of sight. Perhaps Raphael had captured Crowley, but not discorporated him? That had to be it. _I’d know if he were dead,_ Aziraphale told himself. _I’d sense it._

Aziraphale felt torn. He couldn’t stand to leave Crowley in danger, but how could he intercede? He’d give them both away, and put Crowley in danger from Hell, as well as an Archangel. But he had to try. Aziraphale slipped into dream, as gently as a falling feather.

***

Berenice half-expected the fierce stone teeth to close around them, as she and the snake slipped between them, and into the cave beyond. It was a damp space, the mist from outside creeping in, and somewhere far away there was a faint sound of dripping water. It was peculiarly warm, almost humid, the cool wind unable to reach inside this crevice. Berenice could feel the crunch of skeletal leaves beneath her sandals giving way to slippery stone.

The snake’s eyes darted around, looking anxiously behind them, but Hermes was out of sight now, as Berenice carried him further into the dark. Crowley could feel his eyes beginning to adjust to the dimness. He peered at the girl’s round face, only to see her own brightly curious eyes fixed on him.

“Right,” said Berenice. “We’re away now. Why don’t you tell me what’s got you so scared?”

Crowley did his best to look like an ordinary snake, entirely unable to understand greek, rather than a demonic serpent who understood every word. His tongue flickered out, and he tried to look like he was thinking snakey thoughts about how tasty mice were, or something (they weren’t bad actually, when roasted in honey, and rolled in poppy seeds).

Berenice snorted. “Yeah, pull the other. It’s got bells on. I don’t know what you are, but I know you’re not an ordinary snake. I may be eleven, but I’m not _stupid,_ you know.”

They stared at one another, and then Crowley gave a little snakey shrug. “All right, yeah. You got me.”

“You can talk!” Berenice gaped.

Crowley would have raised an eyebrow, if he had had them in snake form. “Wait, were you bluffing?”

“Yeah, obviously. I mean, this is a dream, and we just traveled here with a god, but still-- You’re a snake. I didn’t expect you to be able to answer. I just… sort of hoped you might?” Berenice looked sheepish. 

“A god’s a great thing to have on your side, but I bet Hermes has never been scared of anything. I am, though. And so are you.” She looked stubbornly determined to be friendly, and as if she wanted to hold out a hand for Crowley to shake, except her hands were occupied by carrying the caduceus staff, and feeling a path along the stone wall. Also, Crowley was a snake, and didn’t have hands. “I’m Berenice.”

“Never had a great track record with having God on my side,” Crowley muttered. “I’m Crowley,” he told her.

“Is that why you’re scared of Hermes?” Berenice wanted to know. “The gods can be really mean to people they don’t like--Did Hermes turn you into a snake?”

“No!” Crowley objected, but then hesitated. “Raph--Hermes didn’t turn me into a snake. I’m always a snake, except that sometimes I’m human-shaped. No, the problem is that Hermes wouldn’t like me much, if they knew I wasn’t an ordinary snake, like they think I am. Hermes doesn’t know that I’m magic, that I can talk, and I want to keep it that way.”

Berenice frowned. The drip of water was getting louder, but it sounded different, now, the sound bouncing and distorting strangely. “What are you, then, if you aren’t an ordinary snake?”

Crowley considered lying briefly, but he didn’t see the point, and had never much liked lying to human children, anyway. Better to lay out the situation, and let Berenice make her own choice. His fate was in her hands.

“I’m a demon,” Crowley explained, his yellow eyes gleaming in the dark, as if lit by some internal fire. “An evil spirit. I bring bad luck, and tempt people into ruin.”

Berenice considered that carefully, pressing forward into the growing dark. Did the dripping noise sound like a voice? An animal, maybe? “That’s dumb,” she said, finally. “So, you’re a spirit that’s supposed to bring bad luck, a bad omen. But you’re a snake daimon. In the temple of Asklepios. Which is full of snakes that are avatars of the god of healing, and bring good luck to the ill and suffering. And you’re here, in the dark with me, in my bad dream, trying to find a way to stop the scary thing, so that I can get well.” She laughed shortly. “Yeah, you’re really evil. Definitely sound like a bad omen.”

Crowley had nothing to say to that.

In the distance, the sound came again, It was nothing like water, now. A dog barking? It was a rough, percussive sound, and it was getting louder. The cave was getting warmer, as well. It had grown almost uncomfortably humid, as they traveled deeper into the mountain. Berenice realized that the only points of light left were the two amber jewels of Crowley’s eyes, gleaming in the dark. She shivered.

“I think we should go back, and get Hermes,” she said quietly. In the distance, the rough bark came again, and again, and this time she recognized it. A cough. Her brother’s cough, wet and rattling. 

Everything felt too hot. Was she dying, outside of this strange dream, in the real, waking world?

“No, wait, wait!” Crowley pleaded. “Not yet.”

“I won’t tell Hermes that you’re a daimon,” Berenice promised. Crowley was still afraid, she realized. His pinned coils writhed with nervous tension. “Maybe…” A thought occurred to her, and Berenice tried to pry the wooden snake away from the staff to free Crowley, who was trapped in place by it. The wood refused to give under her fingers, and she pulled them away with a huff of frustration. “Sorry,” she told Crowley. “I can’t get you free. You’ll have to come back with me.”

Crowley’s voice was dejected, as he gave up struggling. “Raphael--Hermes, I mean--They’re going to figure out I’m not an actual snake, eventually. They’re a lot more powerful than I am, and I can’t get myself free without them noticing. I’ll be discorporated. And that’s if I’m _lucky._ I can’t take on an Archangel, and I can’t sneak away unless someone distracts them.”

“Could I distract them?” Berenice asked. She really wanted to go back to somewhere where it was light, and cool. There was another sound now, like metal scratching along stone.

“No. No, you’d better not try. You’ve got to focus your energy on getting better, and you’ll need the Archangel’s help with that.” Crowley brightened. “But you can help me leave a message for my friend. He’s clever; he’ll figure out Raphael has taken me into a dream. It’s _your_ dream, so you can change the shape of bits of it. Will you help me leave him a message?”

Berenice grinned. “If it means getting out of here? Let’s get started.”

“Right. I’m going to need a pen, and some parchment.” Crowley went abruptly silent. “Oh, right, hands.” He hissed in annoyance. “Can you take dictation?”

Berenice scowled at Crowley. “I can’t read or write.” 

“Want to learn, miraculously fast?”

  
  



	3. The Message

Aziraphale tumbled from dream to dream, skipping like a stone on water. They were restless, usually. There was so much pain, here, carried with the pilgrims who came seeking cures, like overstuffed bags finally opened, contents spilling out. 

A dark ocean reached up, pulling Aziraphale under its waves and he was drowning, long strands of jewel encrusted kelp pulling him deeper, as a dolphin laughed. “You ought to drink less wine,” it chattered gleefully, at the nauseous angel, before freeing the drowning fisherman beside him.

_Skip_

The world wrenched sideways, and he was in a meadow, helping a young woman braid strands of linen cord together. “I think this will make a delicious cake, don’t you?” she asked Aziraphale, looking pleased. “I shall eat it with honey, oregano, and two raw eggs.” Aziraphale opened his mouth to object, but the linen braid curled itself into a moon-shaped barley cake, which actually did look quite delicious. He was about to say so, but then the flowers in the field grew abruptly into trees, and he was somewhere else again.

_Skip_

There was a cat looking very intensely at him. “It’s not that I’m not friends with the dog,” it told Aziraphale, and its eyes that were wide and yellow, but so unlike a snake’s. “It’s just that I’m not allowed to let the head of household know.” A black dog nodded sagely. “Yes,” he barked. “He would be very cross if he knew I wasn’t chasing the cat, but we’ve come to an arrangement you see.” “An arrangement?” Aziraphale asked. Was that a hint? Was he getting closer? “The ginger cat smiled besottedly at the dog. “Oh, yes. We’re getting married next week.”

_Skip_

Aziraphale was falling from the sky like a stone, plummeting through complete and inky darkness. He landed in water, disoriented and shocked. Sputtering and choking, he kicked out, struggling, unable to tell which direction he ought to be pushing towards to reach air. After a tense, panicked moment, he abruptly remembered that he was an angel, and therefore didn’t actually need to breathe, which was quite a relief. He stopped struggling, and looked around himself instead. It was very dark, and he couldn’t see clearly through the murk of the water, anyway. Did he dare risk a miracle? He didn’t want Raphael to sense him here. Suddenly a hand pierced the dark waters, pulling him up. It was the oldest human Aziraphale had ever seen, her wrinkles set deep as crevasses in the landscape of her face. “What’s this?” she croaked with delight. Her grip on his arm was strong. “A visitor? Here to celebrate my five hundredth birthday, no doubt!” She clapped her hands gleefully. “Where has that ungrateful son of mine gotten to? Andras!” Aziraphale jumped, as she abruptly began to bellow. “Andras!” A miserable old man (though not as old as she) tottered out from the cottage made of gold that had appeared from the darkness. “Another guest for my birthday party. See that you show generosity to him! Get cake! And wine! Don’t stint!” She cackled with malicious glee. “What a party. It makes a girl look forward to turning five hundred and one!”

_Skip_

There were teeth all around Aziraphale. No, they were stalactites and stalagmites. No, surely they were a forest of marble pillars. Yes, they were pillars. Aziraphale was in a huge columned hall, light streaming through a series of round oculi in the ceiling above. Aziraphale could hear a faint rustling, and his heart fluttered in his chest as he realized that it was the sound of pages being turned, scrolls unrolled and rerolled. Unable to stop himself, Aziraphale set his feet in the direction of the sounds of books. 

It was a library. Perhaps, the most beautiful library Aziraphale had ever seen. It was as if someone had collected every piece of human literature ever created, or that would ever be created in the future, and brought it together in this welcoming, golden dust-filled, sunlight-dappled space. Clay tablets rested next to papyrus, which sat beside cheap mimeographed pamphlets, which leaned beside leatherbound volumes. It was empty, there was no one else in the space, but Aziraphale, but the air felt welcoming and full of expectation and the smell of dust and old books. It was as if someone had conjured up a perfect imagining of Aziraphale’s fondest wishes. All it was missing was a delightful snack. And perhaps, the right company to share it with… Aziraphale’s heart twisted in worry.

As if Aziraphale’s thoughts of Crowley had conjured it up, a perfect red apple appeared on one of the bookshelves. Aziraphale gasped, and reached for it, finding it’s shiny red skin smooth and cool under his fingers. He lifted it away from the book underneath, a small, simple thing held together with a couple of rough stitches for binding. _OPEN ME_ proclaimed the top page of parchment, serving as a cover, in large childish print. Not Crowley’s angular hand, but clearly left here in Aziraphale’s path by the Serpent. Aziraphale pressed the apple to his chest in desperate relief. He hastily flipped open the volume.

_Aziraphale,_

_Figured I’d leave this note where you’re likeliest to find it; I know you can’t resist a book._

_Raphael found me in their room, in snake form, and took me with them to heal some of the visitors to the temple. They think I’m one of the snakes of Asklepios, that the humans let wander the temple, but I’m not sure how long that’s going to last._

_I’m really in hot water this time, Angel, and I’m not sure I can get myself out. Don’t suppose you’ve got any clever ideas? I could really use a convenient distraction to direct an Archangel’s attention elsewhere. I’m bound to their staff, as a caduceus, and they’ll notice, if I try any miracles._

_I’m in the dream of a girl named Berenice. She’s the one writing this for me, and she’s the one who’ll help me shape the dreamplace into somewhere you’ll find this note. We’re in a mountain, where Berenice’s illness lives. It’s very dark here; could really use a torch. We don’t all glow like you do._

_Berenice and I are going to have to turn back to where Raphael is, so I can’t write much more._

_Whatever you do, promise me you’ll be careful, Aziraphale. Whatever you come up with, be sneaky about it, would you? I don’t know what I’d do, if something happened to you._

_But if you want to come to me, anyway, despite the danger?_

_That’s your choice._

_Yours,_

_Crowley_

Choice. 

Aziraphale studied the shiny red apple, closed his eyes, and took a bite.

***

Raphael was sprawled out, loose-limbed and relaxed, against one of the massive stone teeth at the tunnel’s entrance, the broad brim of their hat shading their eyes, as they squinted through the mist at the sky. They hardly spared a glance as Berenice scrambled out between the teeth, carrying Crowley’s perch (prison, really), but smiled a bit, absently. It wasn’t the sort of smile that made Crowley feel better. He hoped Raphael continued to be genial and absent-minded, but something about the smile, and the way thoughts seemed to be constantly shifting behind those intelligent eyes, kept him from relaxing. Raphael was quick-witted, and if Crowley slipped up, they would notice.

Berenice was panting, and her curls were coming loose into a halo around her head. She had broken into a run in the last ten minutes of their journey back to the mouth of the mountain, as if she were afraid of being pursued. Crowley hadn’t heard or seen whatever haunted her there, in the dark, but it had a power that was tangible in this dreamworld, so he’d encouraged her speed. The light and cold wind felt like a relief after the close, hot damp of the cave.

“How did the scouting go?” Raphael asked. “Did you and the snake find what you were looking for?”

Crowley shuddered, eyeing the Archangel cautiously. He focused very hard on thinking snake-thoughts and appearing oblivious to the fact that he was being discussed. Definitely an ordinary snake, not a demon that had left a message, and a doorway, for an angel.

Berenice looked taken aback for a moment, and then set her jaw. “You could say that,” she said. “Dreams are for diagnosis, and then cure, right? That’s what the temple priests say, at least. Well, here’s the diagnosis. I’m sick with the same illness that my brother had.” Berenice’s eyes drifted behind her to the fierce stone mouth. Crowley frowned, shifting on the staff so that he could brush reassuringly against the hand of the girl carrying it. 

“When we were in there, in the tunnels, I heard him. I heard that awful cough he had, before the fever burned him up. It was like he couldn’t catch his breath, like his lungs were full of rainwater that wouldn’t dry, that dripped and made rattling, wet sounds.” Berenice shook. “That’s coming for me, now.” She looked pleadingly to Raphael. “That’s diagnosis. What’s the cure? Please, Hermes,” her voice broke like misfired ceramic. “I don’t want to die like that. I want to live. I… I’m scared.”

Raphael was still staring up at the misty sky. Crowley hissed in frustration. Berenice needed reassurance and help, and this angel couldn’t even lower themself to show an ounce of compassion or understanding. Once again, Aziraphale was exceptional. He would never have ignored a child’s pain.

First chance he got, Crowley was going to bite Raphael.

“Cure…” Raphael finally murmured, but neither finished the sentence nor turned away from gazing into the distance. They squinted, and then blinked, one of their eyebrows rising. “Oh, look!” They chirped merrily. “Isn’t that an owl?”

Crowley was definitely going to bite them. It might get him a smiting, but it would be worth it.

***

Aziraphale was falling, tumbling from the sky like an arrow, the substance of the dream around him parting as easily as the flesh of the apple between his teeth. The landscape of clouds shifted and distorted around him, forming strange plateaus and vistas that vanished again immediately.

A path was forming beneath him, made out of dust and sky. It unfolded like an invitation, like a letter he was reading, familiar words in an unfamiliar hand. There, above him, a pair of binary stars whirled, dancing around one another without ever touching. Their light illuminated the sky-path.

Crowley had opened up this space for Aziraphale, pulling him into it with the message, and the apple formed of dream-stuff. This landscape was made of the same person’s dream, shaped by Crowley into a space for Aziraphale. Every bit of this immaterial thought-matter cried out, _I’m here! I’m here, and I need you. I am placing my faith in you to choose to help me, to_ **_choose me._ **It made Aziraphale feel giddy, and frantic. 

He was tumbling through cloud faster now, and he was afraid he’d be knocked away from the golden, starlit path--the same color as Crowley’s lovely eyes--so he willed himself to take control of his flight, bringing out his wings to halt his momentum. Looking down at his shadow on the edge of a cloud before he burst through it, shaking off the cold and wet dew of it, he registered how large and conspicuous his silhouette appeared. Somewhere along this path, in this dream, were Crowley, Raphael, and the sick human. Aziraphale didn’t have a good excuse for being here, not yet. Wouldn’t it be better if he never had to make his excuses to Raphael, at all? If he could sneak in, as Crowley had snuck into the garden, rescue his friend, and slip away together? 

Aziraphale thought very hard about being something small, and non-angel shaped. He prodded the fabric of the dream with his thoughts and hopes, very gently, until it shifted obligingly, like a retriever turning over to have its belly scratched. Aziraphale found himself much smaller, covered with pale beige feathers, talons and beak fierce and sharp, and eyes taking in tiny movements in the strange world around him. 

Somewhere below, he could see a person in a hat and traveling cloak, a small girl with hair that was escaping from where it had been tied, and a familiar red and black snake. Owl’s heart beating fast in his chest, Aziraphale flew closer, descending through the mist, towards the mountain.

  
  



End file.
